Gangster Rosary Tattoo On Hand Novels & Stories

I screamed, “Hey!” Ricardo stood in front of me, wearing only pyjama pants, his chest bare. On his lift arm was the same tattoo all three of my foster brothers had—a hawk. It was the mark of their pure blood in the La Cosa Nostra. Every family in La Cosa Nostra had its own unique tattoo. He wrapped his arm around my neck and yanked my head down, pressing the crook of his arm against my skull. I tried to push him away and yelled, “Ricardo, stop! This is not funny.”

“Who sent you?” He grinned, his teeth stained red with blood. My eyes drifted to the tattoo on his neck—a black-and-grey inked image of a skull with a serpent weaving through its hollow eyes, crowned with a Sicilian Trinacria. It was unmistakable. My blood ran cold. Cosa Nostra. So, they finally decided to take me out. I wasn’t surprised, but I was angry. Angry that they thought they could just erase me like some unwanted mistake.

I shake my head at him and look away. He's sitting with his knees pulled up and his arms draped lazily over them, giving me a view of his arm and hand tattoos. He has 'love' and 'pain' tattooed across his knuckles; on his right hand, he has a rose, and on the left, he has a skull. My eyes follow up his arms looking at the artwork on them for a second before I rip them away and return my glare to him.

…that tattoo…’ Pablo who still held his trembling woman who was calming down now in his arms, suddenly had his eyes enlarging when he saw the tattoo branded against the top right shoulder of Stefano who now had the woman he was with, giving him the black jacket to put on as she watched him sternly. He could recognize that red scorpion with a vertical white rose stalk anywhere. After all, it was a prominent symbol of the Mexican Mafia that he had been vehement on finding any leads that would bring them exposed to him. His gaze drilled into the distinct tattoo and flitted to the small woman with a defiant frown, appearing to be scolding him. Then it struck him like a bullet, he had seen her so

Kai shot back, “Cousins fall in love sometimes.” Martin gagged. “That only happens in those deranged dark romance books you read. Stop reading that nonsense.” “They’re my therapy.” “Get new therapy.” Martin started the car but paused. “Ray… be careful of that kid.” Kai frowned. “I thought you liked him like five minutes ago.” Martin’s tone changed. Quiet. Serious. “When I shook his hand, I saw a tattoo on his wrist. Not the whole thing, but enough to know it looked like that gang insignia. The one with the inverted triangle. I didn’t see the full bug symbol but… I swear I’ve seen something like that before.”

Late forties, maybe fifty, shaved head gleaming under the strobes, a thick silver chain around his neck. Tattoos crawled up his throat and down both arms, faded prison style roses mixed with newer, sharper pieces. His hands were scarred, knuckles busted a hundred times, the kind of hands that had fixed engines and broken jaws in the same lifetime. He didn’t ask with words. He just stopped in front of me, eyes dark and steady, and slid one huge palm to my waist like it belonged there. The other hand hovered, waiting. The music swallowed everything else, I couldn’t even hear my own heartbeat anymore.

Of course, whoever was with the woman probably needed somewhere nice to sit as it took a while with this sort of thing. “You and me both” she said, “but I gotta say some of those looked alright, we definitely haven’t found YOUR dress yet.” She wasn’t wrong, some of them had been decent enough, but none that really won me over. Exasperated I shook out my low ponytail, twisted my hair, and shoved it up into a sloppy bun on the top of my head. I heard a gasp and turned to see the saleslady staring at me. I realized, belatedly, that my tattoo was visible. In the mob, or mafia as it was typically called, we had distinguishing marks; one of the most frequent being strategically placed tattoos. Thi

“No escape, my friend.” Both men froze. A tall figure stepped out from behind a container, the harsh light catching the ink on his left arm—an unmistakable tattoo. A serpent coiled around a skeletal hand. The mark of La Mano Rojas. Nikolai’s eyes went wide, terror flashing like lightning. Igor’s hand twitched, subtly signaling the nearby guards to stay sharp.

Beneath the cool cedar, there was another faint but unmistakable scent of gunpowder and blood. I shoved him away and lifted my head, staring hard at his face. His face was still the impossibly handsome one I knew—he had a high, straight nose, thin lips, and focused and tender eyes that glinted behind gold-rimmed glasses. He looked every bit the refined scholar, not the Underboss in his mafia family. "What's wrong, Chiara?" Dante reached out to touch my face, but I turned my head to dodge him. His hand froze in midair. I got a good look at his long, clean, well-shaped fingers. But on the back of his right hand, near the thumb, there was a fresh, thin wound that had just begun to scab over.

He pressed on, "Why would the Romanov trust an outsider such as yourself with such vital information?" "It's my turn," I reminded him firmly. He hissed. "Fine, ask." "Who do you work for, Bjorn?" I asked, then quickly adjusted. "Wait, let me rephrase that. Between the Gambinos and Roccos, who hired you?" I recalled the tattoo on his wrist—a skull over two crossed guns. The position of the guns and what was beneath them would tell me which family was involved. "I don't need to answer that," he said coldly.